Why I Hate Machines
by Zea T
Summary: In the aftermath of the Transformers Animated finale 'Endgame', Captain Fanzone is forced to reassess a long-held prejudice.


**Why I hate Machines**

_In the aftermath of the TFA finale 'Endgame', Captain Fanzone is forced to reassess a long-held prejudice._

This is a work of fan fiction based on the cartoon series _'Transformers Animated'_ which was produced by the Cartoon Network, based on Hasbro's long-running toy franchise. Characters and situations are used without permission, without claim to any rights, and without profit to the author.

Author's note: I watched _Transformers Animated_ (yes, all of it!) for the first time last weekend, and this story has been hovering at the back of my mind ever since, breaking a long-standing writer's block. There are a lot of interesting characters in the series, and Police Captain Fanzone is one of them. This is a bit of introspection on his part, examining his oft-repeated lament 'This is why I hate machines'.

Warnings for angst, moderate strong language from the grumpy police captain, and (since this is set in the aftermath) major spoilers for the series finale 'Endgame'. Another warning because this probably isn't my best writing – after so long blocked, I'm glad to be writing just about anything!

Any and all feedback, comments or advice are more than welcome. Please don't hesitate to point out problems, or just leave a two word 'loved it' or 'hated it' comment – I'd rather know one way or the other!

* * *

It used to be so easy to hate machines. They were so solid, so reliably unreliable, so… safe.

I can't help thinking that over as I slip through the night-darkened factory, and past the far-too-human clutter.

I know it's not big of me, not clever, to palm all the problems of the world off on a hunk or two of inanimate metal, but I've been a cop long enough to see what the job does to good men. I've seen old partners and good friends get well and truly messed-up. There's only so long you can keep the frustration, all that slow-building poison, inside before it eats away everything - and everyone - you care about. You gotta let it out. You've got to let go of the anger before you turn around and realise it's all you have left.

Machines… they were an easy target. Promising to work wonders, only to go nuts because some geek didn't dot the i's and cross the t's in their program code. Malfunctioning, and wrecking my city without a second thought, or even a first. Taking the next guy's job, taking mine one day maybe. I wasn't kidding when I said I hated them – and said it over and again.

'Course, when the giant war machines from another planet turned up, dragging us all into their damn battles, there was no question I was going to hate them too. Sumdac's robots might have wrecked the city in a thousand little ways, wearing me down one beserk trash-bot or auto-traffic smash at a time, but these guys did it big time. They did everything big time. Even standing still, lurking smugly behind the Mayor or old Sumdac, they were too damn big. They made me feel small just being there, as if I was nothing but an organic smear to be scraped off their hulking metal feet. Sometimes they seemed to think that too.

Look around at the building sites that litter this city, the messes they got halfway through clearing up before going off on some new rampage, and tell me I wasn't justified in venting! And if it let out just a little more rancour than a situation warranted, if I let my words bounce off their metal shells with a tad more vehemence than I should've… well, you gotta let it out sometime, and it's not like they could have feelings to hurt. Not _real_ feelings, right?

Pausing in front of a metal door, I can't help wishing machines had just stayed damn machines. Then I wouldn't be one of just three native Earth folks who can walk into this place without setting off a dozen alarms. I wouldn't be creeping through it, trying not to disturb the occupants' sleep… recharge… whatever. I wouldn't be trying to work out where the line is that I'm about to cross, and wondering if they'll understand or just go postal when they find me here.

Because things were simple when machines were just infuriating, incompetent, inanimate machines.

Before I witnessed the quiet black shadow's determination to value life, even dim-witted dinobot life, against his orders and all my expectations…

Before the hulking great traffic-accident-on-wheels painted pictures that hit me like a fist in the gut, dragging the depths of a soul I'd forgotten I had…

Before they asked me – me! – to look after a little girl, showing more compassion than any human she'd known in her young life, and before their old grouch of a medic took a blind leap halfway across the galaxy to pull my ass out of the fire.

He'd throw that same ass back in if he found me standing here, looking up at the underside of the metal table, and wondering how the hell I'm going to get up there.

'Cause things were simpler when I hadn't seen these Autobots playing and fighting, laughing and bickering as if they were real people… as if they were friends, family even.

When that damn infuriating gold-and-black robot was alive and well and calmly condescending, not lying up there, cold and empty. Before he gave everything he had and more to save my city and its insignificant, inadequate 'organics'.

I guess I must've been staring up at the smooth, metal tabletop for a while because I've no idea when a pale blue glow joined the red and green equipment lights I've been using to navigate the 'bots repair bay. It takes a sudden shift in the reflections to finally make me jump, and it's anyone's guess how long the tall white ninja-bot's been stood there in the doorway before deciding to clue me in.

Maybe they've got the room alarmed, after all. Or perhaps it's just a coincidence he's here, looking past me toward the table and the casket there. I've not seen this one laugh since it happened, not seen him smile or heard the music that used to get on my last fraying nerve. He's barely been eating, 'cording to the Sumdac girl. Guess he's not sleeping either.

He doesn't say a word as he ghosts forward, all danger and stealth and far, far too much grace for a damn great hunk of metal. I don't let him back me off, but I'm in the wrong here and I know it. I'm ready to take his anger, even if the huge hand descending towards me has my heart pounding in my throat. I sure as hell don't expect it to come to rest on the ground beside me, palm upwards.

It's damn undignified, and accepting a favour from a machine to boot, but I hold my tongue as I step up onto that white metal hand, and he's quiet too as he raises it to rest against his chest-plate. The medbay stills, my hoarse breathing and the barely-audible whir of his systems the only sounds. There's no need for words as we look down on the grey shell, tucked peacefully in its metallic casket. Silently, I pay my respects, bidding a final farewell to the mech that never stopped surprising me, right up until the day he gave his life to save mine and those of everyone I know or care about. A part of me is cursing him because another part, for the very first time in my life, is saying 'thank you' and 'sorry' to a damn machine.

The foundations of my world are trembling, a thousand remembered slights and thoughtless yells battering at my conscience, but I've done what I came here to do. I've acknowledged my debt and accepted that maybe, just maybe, I need to rethink the whole machine thing.

Watching this family grieve, I simply cannot label that grief a mere reflection of true emotion. Contrasting this dull shell with the warm black and burnished gold of memory I don't doubt for a second that something's been lost forever, something courageous and compassionate and stronger than I ever guessed… something brilliantly alive.

Swallowing hard, I reach up to touch Jazz's chest – fingers brushing his bumper tentatively. For a moment, the blue glow of his visor dims, and I hear a murmur of cycling vents. Then he turns, a silent marble statue, not needing to ask why I came, or why I felt the need to do this at dead of night, without the yellow nuisance watching me or Optimus Prime's deep blue eyes on my back.

It's not an easy thing to admit you've been wrong your whole life.

He pauses in the doorway, and I realise he's sealing the room, protecting Prowl in death, as he couldn't in life. He crosses to the factory's main door before stopping again, showing me the way out even as he lowers me to the ground. His visor is still dimmer than it should be, and every inch, every foot, of him is taut with strong emotion.

"Just ask next time."

The white robot vanishes; his soft murmur hangs in the air behind him.

And just like that my world steadies. I feel anger flare within me, its flames all the hotter and more intense for its slow burn. Because the Sun's rising on a new day and I know before it sets, they'll be gone, taking Prowl home and laying his shell to rest. Like a fool I thought that would be the end of this. I've been lost in their grief, swayed by their rationalisations, believing along with them that this one sacrifice was all it would take to end their war.

Four words were all it took to shatter that pipedream.

No one's hidden the fact that there are still Decepticons out there – headless now, but still plenty dangerous. I guess it was pretty damn naïve of me to think this whole mess might be over, and that Earth has seen its last robot horror.

Jazz is far from naïve, far more of a warrior than any of Optimus Prime's crew ever were, and there were no illusions in his brief instruction. Four words to remind me their war will return, and that next time I pay my last respects it could be Optimus Prime lying on that metal slab, or the Sumdac kid, or even Jazz himself. To tell me that there will _be_ a next time, and that there's not a damn thing a mere human like me can do about it.

The thought twists my guts into a knot, my anger at the unfairness of it collapsing into a bitter resentment of their senseless war, of Jazz's words and of the mech himself.

'Cause after all this… after baring my soul and feeling the silence of the grave sink into it… there's finally solid ground back under my feet. And if anyone cares to ask, I know exactly why I hate machines, and why I always will.

Because _not_ hating them, learning to like them, love them even… well, that's just gonna hurt too damn much.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
